I wish it was the time of year for Lent. The time of year to give something up, for a reason bigger than just to do it. Just doing it is good enough, though, I suppose. You give something up—cigarettes, chocolate, alcohol, television, whatever—and all the sudden you want it more than you ever did. That sense of deprivation. It sets like a weight, doesn’t it? A quiet thrill is there, too, though. When you want that cigarette or truffle or glass of wine or sitcom and you crave it and it seems like you need it to survive the moment but you leave it alone, and then you grasp the control. The empowering control that causes you to take your fast by the throat and extend it longer than you planned and you start seeing good come of it and so you pull back more and more and more. And then they say it’s too much. Or not enough, or whatever. The coasters on my door, the drawings in my sketchbook, the books on my shelves, the clumsy chords on my guitar; they say it’s too much. The real-life planning, the practical decisions, the organized daily planners and calendars and routine and schedule; they say it’s not enough. Romanticism, too much; discipline, not enough; macabre, health food, scars, music; too much, not enough, too much, too much and not enough. So I have to gather myself a bit; you know, get some self-control. I want to give up speaking for awhile. I wonder what it would be like, to go a month, a week, or even just one entire day without an utterance. Would it be restful, or would it be painful? Would my throat have pangs from not speaking, similar to the stomach pangs of not eating? Would I slip and let a word tumble out, then be so angry angry angry at myself for failing? I think I could do it, and enjoy it, if it was allowed by practical social standards.I suppose social standards are relative, though. They would be different—possibly non-existent—depending on where I go. A strong statement of silence might be accepted or even admired in the underground of bohemian or beat cultures. Strong cravings for the new and unconventional would earn some respect from the hipsters. Deep spirituality would gain acceptance with the neo-hippies. A love for animals and nature might get me in with the activists. A bit of dark masochism could win over the goths and emos. A wild side, the punks. Strong moral standards, other Christians. A combination of all of the above...A chameleon coat to mix with all types? That would be nice. But the subcultures all seem to snub one another, if they are not even radically pitted against one or two. Unnecessary division. Too much focus on what is wrong with one another, and not enough joy drawn from other people as God made them to be. Love. Accept. Relate. Serve. Relay His Love. So simple in theory, but the sinful nature of man botches this perfect formula in practice, causing strife and judgment, where there is no need for strife and no right to judge. If only humans were better at mimicking Christ (the classic sigh of all Christians). He is the balm that cools our inflamed souls; that sooths the friction between people. In His absence, we are cracked and dry and bleeding, and therefore can give no comfort to others who are just as parched as ourselves. But who am I to say? Who am I to speak at all, about anything, regarding God or man? As if my insights are new; as if anything I've ever said is a revelation. Every day I want to bang bang bang my head against the wall to break my stupid human pride. My infectious, titanium pride. The prideful heart that is an abomination to God...that lurks in me.Thank God that, for every step I take in sin, He takes two in grace.